Reading Between the Lines
by SGAFan
Summary: A look at the complex but loyal friendship of John Sheppard and Ronon Dex. Written for the HC Bingo.


_**Reading Between the Lines**_

He never thought he'd ever really get used to the antiseptic smell of the infirmary. He figured it was too many bad memories, here and further back in his past, sometimes with him in the bed, sometimes not. Sometimes leaving the infirmary with a smile on his face, even a small one… and sometimes not.

This time, John didn't know which it would be. As he stared at the slow rise and fall of his friend's chest, part of him wished, for good or bad, that he knew. But another part of him refused to see anything but the positive. His friend was still alive and there was still a chance.

"_Thought you swore you'd never babysit Zelenka on the mainland again." __John slowed his pace making conversation easier. _

"_Changed my mind." Ronon shrugged. "New game to hunt." _

It was the routine missions, the ones where you just waved and left and expected to come back in two days, only to have everything go to hell in a hand basket, that drove John near crazy sometimes.

"_Zelenka to Atlantis! Medical team to the mainland!"_

John stood at the foot of Ronon's bed and stared at his face, partially hidden by the large intubation tube. The hiss of the ventilator was rhythmic, signaling life, and John drew reassurance from the sound. Slowly, he walked around the bed and eased heavily into the chair he'd vacated not long before. He was dead on his feet, and he knew it, but McKay and Teyla had been too. Only by leaving himself could he convince them to leave too. He knew Kanaan would keep Teyla from coming back tonight, and an off-duty Keller would do the same with McKay. There was no one to stop John sneaking back, and he took full advantage of it.

He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on his lap. His gaze passed over Ronon's still form, before settling on his face. "Thought McKay was the one with the flair for the dramatic," he muttered. "Snake bite, and an allergic reaction? That's a little over the top for you, buddy." There might've been a note of teasing in John's voice, except nothing about Ronon's coma was funny. "Leave it to you to be the one to finally find McKay's 'venomous snake creature' on the mainland." John's brows furrowed. He could still feel the vibration of the deck plates as he'd redlined the jumper back to Atlantis, while snippets of conversation and urgent words like "intubate" and "crashing" came from the medical team. "But did you have to be allergic to the damned thing too?"

"_Keller to infirmary!" Jennifer's voice was broken by the force she exerted against Ronon's chest. "We need a crash cart ready!"_

"_Get out of the way!" John roared, his voice echoing down the long hallway__, flattening personnel against the walls as the gurney raced by._

John inhaled deeply, and tried to drive the vivid memories away, but the sight of one of his closest friends lying deathly still was burned into his mind. He looked away from Ronon, his gaze settling on an indistinct spot on the floor. A few years back, his close friends had numbered an impressive zero, but here it was different. If he'd been surprised to find a best friend in Rodney, he'd been doubly so to find one in Ronon. He didn't think he could call one friend better than the other, just different, but both mattered equally to him. Ronon was a brother in arms. They shared the kindred spirit of warriors and John had come to realize that, in a lot of ways, they were very much alike.

John smiled slightly, his expression bittersweet as his thoughts translated to words. "You know," he cleared his throat, trying to take some of the fatigue out of his voice, "you didn't exactly make it easy for me to trust you at first." Slowly, his eyes moved upwards from the floor and again settled on his friend. Through the cloud of concern, respect glimmered within him. Ronon had survived as a Runner and on his own for seven years. John often wondered whether, in Ronon's shoes, he'd have reacted the same.

"You could've killed Teyla and me twice over when we first met," John admitted, "but you didn't." His lips twitched faintly. He'd been ambushed and outsmarted by Ronon and both times, the big Satedan hadn't killed him. That had impressed John in more ways than one, and had been a driving force for him pushing to have Ronon placed on his team. To this day, John believed that was one of, if not **the** best, decisions he'd ever made. Over the three years since then, he'd lost count how many times Ronon had saved his life, let alone the lives of Teyla, McKay and everyone else on Atlantis. In Ronon John saw a strength that he didn't think he'd found in himself or anyone else he'd ever met. That strength spread over him and his team, and they were all better for it. The respect he felt for Ronon ran deep, and he suspected Ronon felt the same way. But like so many aspects of their friendship, it went unspoken. Now, staring at Ronon's still form, John wondered if he'd live to regret that.

"You told me once," John said quietly, "that you didn't think you'd still be alive today if you hadn't met up with us." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his head and quickly scratching the back of it. "Truth is," he continued, "I don't think I'd be alive today either, if it hadn't been for you." He laced his fingers and looked back up. His lips tightened for a moment. "Ronon I…." He pulled in a noisy breath through his nose. "Well," his voice was tense, "the place wouldn't be the same without you, big guy. So keep that in mind while you fight this."

He looked away, trying to process thoughts that he could barely wrap his head around, much less vocalize, even alone with a friend he doubted could hear him. He wondered sometimes what kind of luck, good or bad, kept him alive only to watch friends around him die. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he realized his thoughts were darkly pessimistic, but there were times when he couldn't help but think about it. Friends, though hard for him to embrace, made him stronger. Compassion, properly tempered, made him a better officer. But it was a double-edged sword and right now, he felt poised to be cut once more.

He blinked hard, all of the sudden wondering if Ronon had felt the same thing at one time or another. With the loss of Sateda and everything he cared for, how could he not have? He wasn't void of compassion, ruthless and callous. If he had been, he would've killed both John and Teyla three years ago. John added another line to his 'List of Things He and Ronon Had in Common,' a list that got longer the more he thought about it.

"You gotta know what it's like to lose buddies, I know you do," John said softly as he stared at the rise and fall of Ronon's chest. "Don't make me go through it again," he whispered, the quiet solitude of the late night infirmary lowering his guard, if only a little. His gaze once again settled on Ronon's face and he pulled in a tight breath. "I'll make you a deal. You don't do it to me, and I won't do it to you. Okay?"

"Colonel?"

John instanty raised his internal walls at the sound of the light voice hailing him. He pulled in a deep breath and looked up at Keller's compassionate face. "Doc. Thought you were off-duty." He stared evenly back as she scrutinized him closely.

"Rodney's sleeping, and I wanted to check in on Ronon before turning in myself." Her hands settled on her hips. "You're exhausted," she stated matter-of-factly. "I thought I sent **all** of you to bed."

John looked back at Ronon. "Really couldn't sleep, Doc."

"You should try."

"No." John's reply was absolute. He knew the answer wasn't what Keller wanted to hear, but he knew she probably expected to hear it anyway.

"As CMO, I could order you, Colonel."

Her words sounded more like a statement than a threat, and John took them that way. "Yes, you could." His voice was flat and his gaze rested on Ronon unwaveringly.

Keller sighed loudly and disappeared beyond the privacy curtain for a moment, before walking back around and over to him.

John looked up and furrowed his brows at the pillow in her hands.

"That chair is hell on the neck," she pointed out with a small smile.

John let a hint of gratitude into his expression for just a moment, before he took the pillow and shoved a section of it behind his shoulders, allowing the rest to cushion his head and compensate for the short-backed chair. He sighed deeply. "Thanks."

Keller's nod was almost imperceptible as she left, pulling the privacy curtain shut behind her, leaving John alone with Ronon.

John stared at Ronon for several minutes, the quiet of the infirmary slowly lowering his guard once more. He knew the night shift personnel were around, but his instincts, the instincts of a fighter, told him they weren't close. "I can see why you like her, buddy." He smiled slightly. His smile faded, as he considered that part of the reason Ronon liked Keller was because she reminded him of Melena. Ronon had never really spoken much about her, but the few times he had, he'd let John see the pain he carried over her loss.

"_Wife?" John's gaze narrowed._

_Ronon's impassive expression cracked, just a little. "Close enough." _

John had never pushed for more, not that he thought for a second he could've pried anything out of Ronon other than what Ronon wanted to tell him. And in Ronon's stoicism, John saw his own guarded personality. They did a lot of reading between the lines, him and Ronon, with both of them guilty of keeping a lot inside, and revealing very little. But it seemed to work, and they both seemed to understand each other at a level that John knew neither of them had expected.

"I know you're strong enough to beat this, Ronon," John said quietly. His words sounded predictable, patronizing, like something anyone would say, but they didn't feel like that. In his gut, John knew Ronon could survive just about anything if he put his mind to it. "So don't stop fighting, or I'll personally kick your ass."

He could almost see Ronon smirk and hear his 'you and what army?' , but John felt the conviction behind his words.

He settled his head back against the pillow, fatigue winning him over, in spite of his best efforts to stave it off. His eyelids grew heavy, before closing completely.

"_It's called a Sor-nak," Ronon explained. "Death drum. The sound heralds the honorable death of a Satedan warrior." _

_John stiffened, unconsciously crushing the empty beer can in his hand. Alone on the east pier, it was just Ronon, John, a case of Budweiser, and the haunting memory of the Scottish doctor they'd buried. _

"_It's a Satedan tradition." Ronon's voice was quiet. "It's something I want you to do if I ever…." His voice trailed off. _

_John stared hard at him, noting the small crack in his stoic expression. "Not gonna happen," he answered intensely, his passion stirred not only by beer, but by a notion that spooked him. _

_Ronon looked away. "I'll ask someone else." _

_John shook his head. "No, it's not that." He kept his gaze determined as Ronon looked back at him. "I mean you're not gonna…." His voice trailed off. This time it was his turn to look away. _

"_Die?" Ronon's brows quirked. "You can't promise that."_

John's eyes flew open and immediately fixed on Ronon. He stood, stretched and walked up closer to Ronon's bed, looking down at his friend, his flashback still clinging to his memory. Ronon had made a Sor-nak from materials he traded for off-world. Once it was completed, he'd schooled John in playing it, the two of them barely speaking while John had learned the precise beats that one Satedan warrior would play to honor the passing of another.

"_The honor, and the duty, falls to the closest companion of the fallen." _

The explanation had been enough for John to put aside his reluctant to learn the Sor-nak. All he'd needed to hear to know what Ronon thought of their friendship, and what it meant to him.

Reading between the lines: the heart of their friendship.

"My Sor-nak skills are a little rusty, buddy." John placed a gentle hand on Ronon's shoulder and squeezed. "Don't make me use them."

Grabbing his chair, he pulled it closer to Ronon's bed. He put his feet up on the corner of the bed and settled back against his pillow once more. His mind groggy and blank, he stared at Ronon's face for a long time before sleep again overtook him.

Consciousness came back to John slowly. He arched his brows, pulling at reluctant eyelids as he fought back through layers of black, then grey, then finally light. Finally, he peeled his eyelids open.

His gaze went immediately to Ronon's face, searching for any sign of consciousness, any change, but he found nothing. "Crap," he muttered. He'd half hoped things would suddenly be different, that Ronon would be awake and John could be reassured that everything was going to be fine.

He stood, wincing as his body protested, and stretched hard, grunting as his back popped. He rolled his neck, before beginning to pace slowly next to Ronon's bed. "This is getting old, Chewie," he muttered.

If knowing a friend had died was hard, he was finding out living in limbo was doubly so. Knowing, no matter how hard it was, gave him closure: the ability to go on, to heal the wound that the death had left on his soul. But the limbo, the not knowing; clinging to hope when you knew it may be fruitless, that was infinitely harder to deal with.

John pushed aside his dark thoughts. Hope wasn't always shattered, a lesson he'd learned the hard way. Hope meant the chance was there. In this case, it was the chance that his buddy would survive. With a sigh, John settled himself back in his chair and rearranged his pillow, before easing his head back into it. He thought for a moment of the times Ronon had been there while John had been the one in the infirmary bed, and wondered if Ronon'd had the same thoughts.

He blinked heavily, the rhythmic sound of the ventilator lulling him. "Got your six on this one, buddy," he muttered, before his eyes slid shut.

Consciousness returned faster this time.

John sat up with a start and looked around, before relaxing slightly. He rubbed the crick in his neck and glanced at Ronon's unmoving body. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? "Damn it, Ronon," John winced at the dry, hoarse sound of his voice, "now you're starting to piss me off." As the words left his mouth, John realized there was no anger or malice behind them, only worry that was intensifying as the hours Ronon spent in a coma dragged on. "Time to wake up," John demanded, knowing his words were meaningless. After watching Ronon for several moments, he sighed. "You've never been the best at following orders." He quirked his brow. He was one to talk: orders never were his forte either. Sometimes he wondered if Ronon was payback for all the times in his career he'd pushed back against superior officers himself.

John's gaze narrowed. He preferred a laid back style of command, but with Ronon he was sometimes forced to be tougher. Since taking command of Atlantis' military, and especially since Ronon joined them, John had learned that sometimes 'because I said so' was actually a legitimate reason for an order. There was always a better reason behind it, of course, but it wasn't always the time or place to provide it. The revelation had been an interesting one, even if John's recognition of it over the last couple years had been somewhat begrudging.

"Don't do this." He shook his head and leaned back against the pillow again, his stare fixed on Ronon's still face.

A soft shake to his shoulder woke John hours later. The first sight he saw was Keller's smiling face as she nodded her head towards Ronon's bed. John's gaze followed the motion, settling on Ronon's groggy stare.

John graced him with a relieved smile. "Welcome back, buddy."


End file.
